Signs you are getting old.
When your knees start to go.
When your hips ask, in HAL-like fashion, “What are you doing, Ron?”
When your Brooks saddle disintegrates beneath your very being.
Sigh!
I was heading east on NW 11th Rd. astride my Trek hybrid when my center of gravity suddenly began to…well, sink.
Then there was the tinkle of metal hitting the pavement, and when I glanced down I observed two sad-looking, rusting parts of uncertain origin.
Pulling over, I dismounted.
And stared at the latest reminder of my advancing age.
My disintegrated Brooks Saddle, its newly acquired pug nose, looking morosely back at me.
Seriously, what next?
Once, many years ago, I purchased my brand new Brooks at Bikes & More.
I’m not ashamed to admit it. I was a cycling snob at the time (though not snobbish enough to spend $6,000 on a road bike like some people I could name).
Brooks being the Ferrari of bicycle saddelry (don’t dare call it a bicycle seat, you Cretan).
“Brooks bicycle saddles are famous for their classic craftsmanship, unique break-in process, and hammock-like comfort,” the legend goes. “Handcrafted in England since 1866, they stand out from modern foam and gel seats for several key reasons.”
One reason being “vegetable-tanned leather” that molds to your sit bones. It stays cooler, wicks away sweat on long rides and is guaranteed to attract envious glances from other cycling snobs.
Once, at a mass cycling event somewhere in the Florida panhandle, I encountered another Brooks cyclist/snob. “I don’t know they bother to make any other kind,” he said.
Sigh!
I’ve lost count of the bicycles that have, in their turn, inherited my Brooks over the years. The yellow Giant. The black Specialized. My Surly touring bike. Maybe others, I dunno.
What I do know is that Brooks has supported me more or less comfortably down thousands of miles of country roads, urban streets and narrow trails.
Once I even packed it off to Scotland, where Jill and I rented bikes for a self-guided tour of sheep country. Baa away, you envious ovines.
And as I gazed at the crumbling remains of my Brooks, I knew it was all my fault.
The faux-parchment documentation that came with my Brooks assured me it would endure for decades. But if only I took care to rub it down every six months or so with the Special Sauce…i.e. Brooks Proofide.
Hell, I didn’t even think I was going to last decades. So I didn’t bother.
Enter the pickle.
By the by I proceeded (perched gingerly on the remains of my saddle, to be sure) to Planet Fitness. Where an extremely sympathetic young woman behind the desk made the grave error of asking me how my morning was going,
At which point I poured my heart out. Lamenting both my lost Brooks and my lost youth.
Listen, whatever PF’s paying her it’s not nearly enough.
Donning her most sympathetic smile, the young woman proceeded to tell me that, no, life as I know it is not over. Yes, there is indeed life after Brooks. And, yes, this too shall pass.
And then she gave me a pickle.
Not a real one. That would be rude. Rather a small, green stiff paper pickle that unfolded to reveal a hidden message.
“Keep going. Even slow progress is progress.”
She’s so young. She has no idea what awaits us all down that long, long, long and winding road.
Still, it was a very nice gesture, and I thanked her profusely.
Funny thing, though. Every time I walk in to PF these days and meet her eyes, I get the feeling she’s got me under some sort of suicide watch.
“Are you OK? Really?”
Anyway, me and my…let’s just call it a…pity pickle looked up the price of a new Brooks saddle. And learned that the latest version of my old veggie leather pal ran about $175.
And that’s one of the less expensive models. One version goes for twice the price.
Hell, I don’t think I’ve got $175 dollars worth of cycling left in me, let alone $300.
So it’s back to the old foam and gel seat for me pal. And don’t call it a saddle, Cretan.
Plus, I’m not a cycling snob anymore.
Being older now and, you know, wiser and stuff.
